They left the Cradle beneath a sky bruised with duskfire.
The silence that followed them out was heavy, not just from the echoes they left behind but from the weight of what Irisen had seen in the mirror. His past wasn't just a mystery anymore—it was a wound. And now that it had begun to bleed, he couldn't stop it.
Kareth said little as they moved, but their presence was steady. Grounding.
Ahead, the Ashen Path twisted sharply, descending into a valley shrouded in amber mist. Strange symbols pulsed along the canyon walls—glyphs etched in flame, alive with warning.
"We're being watched," Irisen murmured.
Kareth nodded. "This part of the path belongs to others. Not Ashen Lords. Not us."
"Then who?"
Before Kareth could answer, a flash of silver light cut through the mist.
They were surrounded.
The figures who emerged wore long cloaks woven with flickering threads of flame, each marked by a unique sigil glowing at their collars. Their faces were veiled, and they moved like smoke—silent and fast.
One stepped forward and pulled back her hood. Her skin was bronze, her eyes burning like hearth fire, and on her brow rested a circlet of obsidian crowned with a single glowing coal.
"I am Elyra Vayne, Speaker of the Kindled Vow," she said. "And you, boy, carry the flame we have waited for."
Irisen frowned. "You know me?"
"We know what you are," Elyra replied. "The Everburn Heart chooses its bearer. We have guarded its legacy for centuries—hiding in the margins of shattered realms."
Kareth shifted slightly. "They are flame born like you, Irisen—but bound by oaths older than your memory."
Elyra's gaze swept over him. "You are the first to awaken the spark in a hundred years. The Lords of Ash will come for you. But we offer you a different path—a chance to forge your flame, not just survive it."
They led them to a hidden sanctuary—an ancient forge hollowed into a mountainside, where flame danced without heat and voices sang in the stone.
Here, the Kindled Vow is trained.
Some moulded their flames into armour. Others wielded fire-like songs, shaping memory and steel alike. It was not power through dominance—but through harmony.
Elyra brought Irisen to a chamber deep within the forge.
"This is the Ember Anvil," she said. "The last relic of the Flamewrought Pantheon is still burning."
The anvil pulsed, not with fire, but potential.
Elyra's voice lowered. "You may place your spark into it. Let it be shaped. If you do, it will grow stronger—but it will also change. You must choose the form your fire will take."
Kareth watched him closely. "This is no gift without cost. Once shaped, your flame is bound to the path you choose."
Irisen stared at the Ember Anvil.
Memories surged—Kael's teachings. The Hollow Flame. The Cradle. The Reclaimed.
He thought of the village. The people who had feared him. The ones he could not save.
And then he thought of the future.
He placed his hand on the anvil.
Flame erupted around him—calm, focused, waiting.
A voice—his own, but older—echoed in the fire:
"What do you burn for?"
Visions danced in the fire:
A sword of living flame, forged to protect.
A firestorm crown meant to command.
A hearth, warm and quiet, that could heal the broken.
A chain of fire, binding the old gods to judgement.
He reached into the blaze.
And chose.
When the flame receded, the anvil was silent.
In Irisen's palm, a new weapon had formed—half blade, half staff, forged from black steel and amber glass. It pulsed with his heartbeat.
Elyra stepped forward, awe in her eyes. "You chose a brand. A flame that marks what must be remembered… and what must be undone."
Kareth's voice was unreadable. "A dangerous path."
"I didn't come this far to be safe," Irisen said quietly.
That night, beneath the shifting stars of the Ashen Path, the flames of the forge dimmed.
And across the shattered realms, the Ashen Lords stirred.
In a vault beneath a dead sky, a chained figure with no eyes raised its head and whispered:
"He remembers."